The Scab

It was a poor pitch. The worst patches were five yards in front of the nets where goalkeepers paced to keep warm, and around the centre circle where the ball spent most of its time being fought over. Colm, a centre midfielder, was covering more grass than most. Although not as skilled as many of his teammates, he ran hard and won more headers than his height predicted. He was brave too. When the ball ran loose over one of the pitch’s ruts of hard, crusted mud, he accelerated as others slowed and slid with his left foot tucked and his right foot extended for ball and man. If there was pain, he only felt it long after the adrenaline and pride wore off from hearing the men on the touchline shouting – ‘Well in, Colm’, ‘That’s it, Colm’, ‘Good man, Colm’ – and seeing his father among them. 

In the dressing room, a steel container whose wooden boxes doubled as benches, his teammates’ boots rapped against the metal floor when the manager praised Colm’s tenacity and work ethic. ‘Some man for one man,’ his teammates kept saying, poking him in the side. He laughed it off as he took off his boots, socks and shin pads. He was thinking about being outside, away from so many voices, and didn’t notice the wound until someone else did. 

‘Jesus, lads, look at Colm’s knee!’

Colm tried to cover it with his hand as they gathered around him for a closer look. 

‘Leave him,’ his manager said, getting on his haunches to pour water on the cut. ‘It’s that fuckin’ pitch. It’s like hardpan. Does it hurt?’

Colm shook his head. 

‘It’s not deep, anyway. Let me run to the car for a bandage.’

‘No, I’m grand,’ Colm said. 

‘You are sure?’

‘I’m grand. I’ll put a plaster on at home.’

As Colm pulled on his tracksuit trousers and t-shirt and got up to leave, his team started singing his name. 

His father was waiting in the car park. 

‘It’s Roy Keane himself.’

Colm smiled and put his bag in the boot. 

They talked about the match – the goals, the best players, the managers – as they drove to the shop to buy some lunch (chicken fillet rolls, a portion of potato wedges and two cans of Coke) and the Sunday papers. Passing the racecourse, the church and the school, Colm held the shopping bag on his knees and watched his father run the steering wheel through his hands and manoeuvre the gear stick. 

‘How do you know when to change gear?’ 

‘You get a feel for it,’ his father said. ‘You know by the sound of the engine. If you are revving the engine, you need to go to a higher gear.’

‘But is there a certain gear you need to be in if you are going at a certain speed?’

‘Sort of. It’s more about listening to the engine. You get a feel for it.’

‘But what are you listening for?’

His father grinned. ‘You have plenty of time before needing to worry about these things.’

Colin did worry about these things. He worried that things were expected of people, like driving a car, that he would never be able to master. He tried to listen to what his father could hear the engine saying as the gear stick moved this way and that. It all sounded the same to Colm. It was all beyond his grasp. 

They kept driving. His father put the radio on, and Colm leaned close to the window, wondering about the lives inside the tired house they passed. The road narrowed into a tunnel of trees that muted and dappled the afternoon light. Then the landscape opened again, revealing the river, the sea and the sky. On one side of the road were fields of damp, shiny grass. On the other, the River Boyne, slim and shallow, had left enough material on its sandy banks to attract seagulls. 

They parked the car beside the remains of an abandoned fish factory. Colm passed his father his chicken fillet roll, potato wedges and can of Coke. They rolled down their windows, and a wind whipped the lid of the cardboard box and the edges of the brown paper they held against their knees. All the same, it was a nice breeze. 

Between mouthfuls of food, they sipped Coke and happily sighed as they watched a pilot boat moving along the river towards the sea, where a cargo ship waited for guidance. By the time they had finished their lunch, the boat had reached the anchored ship. Colm tried to hear for communication, for hoarse shouts between the crews. 

‘Must be a tough river to navigate,’ his father said. 

‘It must be,’ Colm said. 

The factory, which had once cooked, pressed, dried and ground herring into fishmeal, was now reduced to skeletal remains. Yet as they walked among rusting washing machines, fridges, and televisions that had been dumped there, the surviving foundations, outer walls and steel girders were enough to stir the imagination. Colm pictured massive machines operated by large men with rough hands and broad heads, and he searched for traces of their labour, hoping to show his father he understood something of that world.

‘Something here,’ he said, lifting a rusted wheel. 

His father walked over. ‘I think that’s a bearing. Must be off one of the old machines.’

‘A bearing?’

‘Like a … I can’t think of the word.’

After walking the factory floor, they studied the graffiti scrawled on the exterior walls. Colm picked up a few spray paint cans lying in the grass and gave them a shake, but they were all empty. He followed his father to the jetty where ships had once unloaded their hauls. There, they found the debris of old times: torn fishing baskets, frayed nets and lengths of rope coming undone. Colm stared at a mooring bollard and worried about time slipping away. The water thrashed and boiled where the river met the sea.

‘I know things aren’t ideal at the moment,’ his father said. ‘But things will work out; they will work themselves out.’

Colm looked at his father’s eyes squeezed against the sunlight. He waited for him to explain, to let him understand. 

‘We’ll figure it out. There’s nothing to worry about. You are doing okay, though?’

Colm nodded and looked out to the water. He didn’t want his father to see him getting upset, and if his father was upset, he didn’t want to see that either. 

‘Is there anything you wanted to do? Anything you need for school?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I have all the books I need.’

‘What about football? Do you need new boots or a new ball? What about a jersey?’

‘No, I’m all good, thanks. Mum got me a new ball the other day.’

‘Are you still practising in the garden?’

‘Yeah, but the grass has gotten long. I think the mower is broken. I heard Grandad talking to Mum about it.’

‘I’m not surprised. We had that mower long before we even moved into the house.’

They weren’t looking at the water as much as they were looking at nothing, a kind of mid-air, somewhere between land and sea. 

‘Why don’t we buy a new mower?’

Colm looked at his father. 

‘What? You don’t think it’s a good idea? What will she say?’

‘She’ll say you are interfering.’

His father smiled. ‘That’s probably true.’

They were both lost in their thoughts as they walked back to the car, not seeing the seagulls banking against the breeze, the tide creeping in, or the specialist work of the cells about their bodies. 

*

Colm had mowed three-quarters of the lawn when his mother appeared at the back door. Shopping bags hung from both arms, and she looked, as always, in a rush to get through the day’s tasks. He tried to read the look she gave his father before she told Colm to come inside. His father told him to cut the engine and do as she asked.

‘Look at the state of your runners,’ she said as he wiped them on the doormat. ‘They’ll need to go into the wash to get them stains off.’ 

It had been two months since his father left the house. Despite her efforts to conceal it, Colm knew his mother’s pain. He heard her choked words turn into tears in conversations with family and friends. He saw her distant looks as she persisted with all the things that needed to be done to keep him fed, clean and healthy. And he sensed that she was working harder than ever, trying to find some relief in the rhythm of routine.

‘Go inside and put those clothes in the wash,’ she said to him. ‘I just want to talk to your father.’

‘He is just trying to help,’ Colm said.

‘I know he is.’

‘Do you want me to put away the shopping?’

‘No, just get changed.’

Colm took off his runners and walked into the kitchen. It was immaculate – everything in its place – and this saddened him for some reason. He walked into the hallway where the evening light made his shadow tall and leggy. Not wanting to step on the carpet, he peered into the living room to see if anything had changed, if there were any clues about what had happened while he was gone. He feared there might be other men, that his mother might seek some kind of revenge, that her perfume, which he had begun to smell for the first time, would draw men to the house like zombies. He wanted his father to be there for that, to barricade the doors and fight them off. 

Feeling his trousers catch on the sticky wound, he pinched them above the knee, holding the tented fabric away from his skin as he walked up the stairs to his bedroom. The argument had started when he began to undress; snatches of their words carried, even as he tried to talk over them. 

‘He couldn’t play football the grass was so long.’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘He’s my son.’

‘When you want him to be.’

‘What’s that meant to mean?’

‘The state of his runners. Letting him drive a lawn mower at his age.’

‘He’s old enough to learn these things.’

Colm felt the skin tighten as he hoisted his leg onto the bed. His manager had been right: the gash was wide but shallow. The blood was turning a darker, muted red at its centre, while its edges were rimmed with a yellowish-white pus. He hovered his index finger over the wound, like a needle over vinyl, before lowering it onto the glinting red. 

‘Just take the money.’

‘No, I got it for the house, for Colm.’

‘Take it with you, then.’

‘You are just being difficult.’

The blood was viscid and wanted to cling to Colm’s finger as he dabbed and pressed until he felt a sharp, tingly pain. Once familiar with the textures and sensations, he traced its perimeter, making ever-smaller circles around the warm, pink-flecked skin until he reached its sensitive core.

‘Let’s not fight over this.’

‘You’re the one fighting.’

‘I’m not fighting you.’

‘It’s not fair on him.’

Colm put on shorts and lay on the bed holding his breath. On the bad nights, when drink had been taken, he would alternate between lying face down with a pillow around the back of his head and standing on his toes with his ear against the bedroom door. Once he crept into the living room and stood motionless until they noticed him. It worked to interrupt their argument, but he felt a strange shame when they both moved to hug him. 

His mother was a cross between anger and sympathy when she came into the bedroom. ‘You shouldn’t have let your father buy that lawn mower, Colm,’ she said. ‘He knew what he was doing. He’ll use that as an excuse to come around in the evenings.’

‘And what’s so bad about that?’

‘He’s only doing it to prove a point, to get at me.’

Colm bowed his head and picked at the mud beneath the lip of his nails. 

‘Oh God, that came out wrong,’ she said and went to sit on the bed. ‘I’m really sorry. Of course he wants to see you. He loves you. It’s just…’

Colm hinged his legs at the knees to make room for her. She was a slight woman, and he had been a large baby—nine pounds and three ounces, delivered through her abdomen. The thought of it made him wince. He thought a C-section referred to the shape of the incision, imagining a flap of skin, like a crescent moon, being opened and closed.

‘Jesus, Colm, your knee!’ she said. ‘What happened to you?’

He tried to cover it with his hand. ‘Football. It’s fine. It’s not deep.’

‘Show me.’

He straightened his leg so his mother could better see the wound. 

‘Why haven’t you got a plaster on it? Did your father see it?’

‘No, I didn’t tell him.’

‘Why not? How did he not see it when you were playing? Jesus, Colm, that might need stitches.’

‘It’s fine, Mum. I’m letting the air get to it.’

‘You need to tell me when these things happen.’

‘It’s just a cut.’

‘It’s not just a cut. It’s…’

‘What?’

She got up from the bed and went downstairs. He listened to cupboards opening and closing, and her swearing. He looked at the wound for a response, as if it might start speaking to him, as if it had anticipated and coordinated the day’s events. He thought of clipping a rope to the window ledge and lowering himself down to see if it would hold, if it would take his weight. 

His mother returned with a bowl of warm water, a tub of Sudocrem and a box of plasters. ‘You have to be careful with these things,’ she said. ‘Now hold still while I clean this.’

‘Our manager already cleaned it.’

‘Well, he didn’t do a good job. I can still see dirt in it.’

Colm tried not to wince as she dabbed cotton wool on the wound. It felt like a test. It was another of life’s tests. 

‘How did you do this?’ she asked. ‘Did someone kick you?’

‘No, I did it kicking someone.’

‘I suppose that’s better.’

She dug into the Sudocrem with her finger and smeared it over his knee. The cream was cold, but he liked the smell, the hint of lavender, and the tub itself, its stable weight. 

‘What did you do after the match?’ she asked.

‘We got some lunch and went to the old fish factory.’

‘Why does your father bring you to that place? I was reading in the paper that it’s infested with rats from people dumping their rubbish.’

‘I like it there.’

‘Oh yeah? What do you like about it?’ She was back on the bed, nestling into it. 

‘I like imagining what was once there. I like seeing the rusty metal.’

‘Rusty metal?’ she laughed. ‘He should be bringing you somewhere nice on a nice day like that. I swear that man wishes he were a fisherman: floating on the water all day long, anchored to nothing.’

‘Why didn’t he?’

‘Didn’t he, what?’

‘Become a fisherman?’

She smiled as she fiddled with the plasters, shuffling them between her hands. ‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask him. We had you, I suppose, and needed steady money.’

Colm followed her eyes to the window and then down to his knee. 

‘Here,’ she said, throwing him the box of plasters. ‘Put one on yourself and don’t pick at it. Let it heal. I need to start on dinner.’

Left alone, Colm smoothed a plaster over his skin. He liked the sensation and kept reaching down to feel it, to appreciate it. It was framing the problem, fastening things together, gathering his body around the wound. He thought of fishing with his father, the two of them working together to haul in nets that had sieved the ocean floor.

*

The next morning Colm could not resist lifting one side of the plaster. The blood had coagulated and puffed into an obsidian-like substance, glistening and spongy, its crust raised and jagged. He probed around the edges of the scab, occasionally allowing his nail to slide under the surface and lift until he felt a tug on the skin. It needed time to ripen. ‘Don’t be picking at that,’ his mother warned when she caught him. ‘It will fall off when it’s ready. You will leave a scar if you pick it off too soon.’

The scab was a tease that followed him: waking with him, having breakfast with him, and sitting on his knee as he sat through school lessons. In the toilet cubicle, he tried to roll up his trousers but couldn’t get them past his calves, so he scratched at the fabric, feeling for the raised surface. Things tried to distract him. He was handed back a history essay with an ‘A’ stamped on it, and for the rest of the day, it felt like he was carrying a precious stone in his school bag.

‘That is absolutely brilliant,’ his mother said, hugging, kissing and applauding him until he had to tell her to stop. 

‘It’s okay, Mum,’ he said. ‘I’ll show it to Dad on the weekend.’

‘You could call him,’ she said. ‘He’ll be very proud of you.’

‘No, I’ll show him in person.’

‘Well, as a reward of sorts, why don’t you help me with this lawnmower. Didn’t your dad go off the other day without doing the front garden.’

‘I thought you said I was too young to use it.’

‘You are too young, but you can tell me what your dad told you.’

‘Should you not call granddad or something?’

‘You don’t think I’m capable?’

He began to stutter. 

‘Come on and let’s figure it out,’ she said. 

They wheeled the lawnmower to the front garden and stood back from it, as if it were a curious beast. His mother had found the instruction manual in the shed and began reading it, page by page.

‘I know what to do,’ Colm said. 

‘This is a dangerous machine,’ she said. ‘It will cut your hand off.’

‘I watched Dad doing it.’

‘Let me read this, Colm’

He went to step towards the mower, but his mother pulled him back. ‘What did I tell you? Let me just read the instructions before we do anything stupid.’

‘I watched Dad,’ he pleaded. ‘You press the red button four times and then hold the lever down. It’s easy.’

‘Give me a second, please, Colm.’ 

But when he lunged at the mower again, jabbing at the red button with the flat of his thumb, she only made a feeble attempt to stop him. 

‘Just be careful,’ she said. ‘Don’t go near the blade.’

He followed his father’s instructions: pressing the red button four times, holding the lever down until flush with the handle, and bending forward from the hips to pull the starter cord. 

‘Be careful,’ his mother said as he yanked at the cord. 

Though the flywheel was spinning, the engine would not ignite. 

‘Leave it, Colm,’ she said. ‘We must be doing something wrong. Does it need petrol?’

‘No, Dad put a load of petrol in. He said it would last for ages.’

‘Maybe it’s the oil or something.’

‘No, it’s not that,’ he said as he pumped the primer before yanking on the cord again. 

‘Just leave it until your dad comes around. He can have a look at it. I don’t like you using it anyway.’

‘I need to learn to use it.’

‘You can learn, but just leave it for now.’

He kept pulling on the cord with all his strength. 

‘Stop that now, Colm, please.’

That night, after finishing his homework, he peeled off the plaster and pressed and dabbed at the deep red until a crystal of blood came away, revealing a pink underlay. He kept picking until uncovering a thimble-sized patch of virgin skin. He knew he should have stopped there, but he didn’t. He kept picking.

*

Their next match was against the league leaders, a tall, physical side known for being tough tacklers. His father had brought Colm to get his hair cut – a short back and sides – that morning and was now tying his son’s laces, which were so long that they had to be wrapped around the midsole of the boot before being tied. ‘They won’t come undone now,’ he said, patting his son on the back. ‘Enjoy yourself.’ 

Colm wasn’t thinking about the match. He was thinking about the evening before. His grandmother had come to the house, bringing a cake to have with their tea. And though he had obediently answered all her questions—about school, his friends, and what he wanted to do when he was older—he was relieved when his mother said he could go outside and play. He was sure his grandmother, who always got on well with his mother, would speak kindly of his father and help clear whatever had settled in the silence between his parents. But when he was called back inside, he knew from her strained smile that this hadn’t happened. His mother, clearing the dishes, told him to show his grandmother his history essay. And as he was showered with praise and told he was the best boy, he wanted to cry.

During the warm-up, the ball sprang off his foot each time he tried to control it. He wanted to lean on something, and it was a relief when the team were told to sit on the ground and stretch their hamstrings by reaching for their toes. He enjoyed the gentle burn along the backs of his legs, being able to fold forward until his forehead nearly touched his knees, and seeing only the muddy ground beneath him. When he got to his feet again, his shorts cold and wet, he looked over at his father, who was talking to another of the fathers. He wondered what they were talking about, imagining it was business or drinking or something he did not understand. 

He had to be called into the huddle. 

‘Come on, hurry up, Colm,’ his manager said. ‘We need to be focused today. This lot are just big donkeys. If we keep our passing quick and accurate, they won’t get near the ball.’ 

The match had started, and Colm was still glancing at his father. He had heard his mother talk of another woman, but he wouldn’t believe it. He thought they just needed some time together—a holiday or something to decompress, to stop blowing up like balloons over silly worries, silly disputes, and something as trivial as money. When his manager shouted his name—‘Your ball, Colm’—he saw the ball arcing toward him. He jumped high and met it squarely with his forehead. His manager encouraged him, ‘That’s it. Well up, Colm.’ But when Colm looked toward the touchline and saw his father still deep in conversation, he began chasing the ball with a kind of desperation, lungs tightening. 

He wanted to make a tackle. 

A hard one.  

He wanted to slide in with his left foot tucked and his right foot extended for ball and man. If there was pain, he would only feel it after the adrenaline and pride wore off from hearing the men on the touchline shouting – ‘Well in, Colm’, ‘That’s it, Colm’, ‘Good man, Colm’ – and seeing his father among them.

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